An Education in Chemistry
by sociopathicfemale
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is trying to impress his somehow-interesting chemistry lecturer Dr. Watson. Cue coffee dates, kisses, confusion, pining and eventual smut.


'Mr. Holmes, could I have a word?'

The lecture hall was emptying out as Dr. Watson's final lecture before reading week commenced had ended. Sherlock was packing up his bag slowly, hoping to catch the young lecturer's eye. His bold comments on another pupil's dismissal of the importance of context in poisoning situations had actually been an attempt to force Dr. Watson to notice him. It had worked.

'Mr. Holmes -'

'Please. Sherlock. What is this, Harrow?' Best get the scathing personality out of the way. Best to be honest in these sorts of situations.

'Sherlock. Yes. Your comments today were quite brash, but I must admit accurate. However, this is a module looking at the medical consequences of chemistry, not the psychological ones.'

'I do understand that; however, if we are going to understand medically how someone got to be where they are, we must understand psychologically. Is the killer intelligent? Does he want the sufferer to have a quick death, a slow one, one that will go unnoticed, or is it a statement? These all have medical consequences for treatment, sir!'

'Yes. Well... yes.' Dr. Watson was looking a little unsure of himself at this point.

'If you'd like, sir,' Sherlock said in his most innocent manner, 'we could discuss this over coffee? Perhaps next week?' If his deductions were correct the lecturer would have no trouble saying yes once he got over the age gap issue. The man was clearly single and had been for quite some time, a somewhat closeted homosexual except with his very closest of friends, who were few in number, and also to Sherlock somehow intriguing. Besides, the age gap was hardly an issue. The man could not have been more than 30, a young bright thing the university had picked up on, and Sherlock was 23 and in his final term of his degree. If he had picked a shorter degree he would be done now, in the real world and any consideration of age difference would not even be there. And yet…

The look on Dr. Watson's face was one of mild surprise but with a hidden smile. 'I suppose… Purely academic, yes? I mean, you're about to be going out into the real world. An extra mentor in the world of chemistry could certainly always be of assistance!'

'Oh, of course,' Sherlock smirked. 'Where would you like to go? Not the canteen here, for one it will be closed and also the coffee is _truly _awful.'

'Somewhere central, though,' John required. 'I'm sure neither of us wants to trek to the other side of London…' he trailed off. Although Sherlock knew that this man lived out in Hertfordshire. He was just being considerate.

'Yes. How about the Notes cafe? The one by the ENO, of course. The staff near Covent Garden are far too rude for even my tastes.'

'Monday?'

Sherlock desperately wanted to say yes, to leap at the idea. But he must give some illusion of having a life beyond seducing his lecturer. 'Tuesday? Monday I have to finish off an experiment I was planning on beginning this evening.'

'How about 11 on Tuesday then? Beat the lunch rush.'

'Perfect.' Inside Sherlock was punching air, but on the outside only a small smirk crossed his face. It had begun.

By Monday Sherlock was itching to see John, as he called him in his head. Not this 'Dr. Watson' that people so faithfully liked as a lecturer, but also feared when he marked their work. No, this John in his head was a quarter intelligent, another 25% caring and loving and the rest was dominance and power. He could see this in the way that he would sometimes assert his knowledge and power over students who refused to listen to his medical and chemical knowledge. The way he could make them feel simultaneously afraid for their entire mark, but also confident in his ability to nurture the knowledge into them through some seemingly impossible osmosis. How Sherlock has somehow been drawn to him like a moth to light.

He has never been so intrigued by someone. Sherlock always wanted to dominate the room and space and make sure he was the smartest and most clever with the best quips about any subject that might come up. But with this man, even in their so far fairly impersonal relationship he felt uncontrollably drawn.

It was with these thoughts of anticipation that he woke up on Tuesday morning far earlier than he had intended. Although he had set an alarm for 9 - just in case - he found himself wide awake at 7. Somehow even the subconscious thought of John, no, Dr. Watson now, had drawn him out of his bed. This anticipation was helped even less by the four cigarettes he chain-smoked outside his building, a habit he had tried to kick unsuccessfully, and a further two cups of coffee downed in rapid succession as to not let the dregs in the cafetière spoil the taste.

With this onslaught of stimulants he was buzzing rapidly by the time he got onto the tube. His Hammersmith flat was small, but far more acceptable than living with some horrid other students and convenient enough to get into Central London. He liked Imperial well enough. Although it wasn't Oxford, it provided him with the excellent conveniences of London and was therefore a worthy compromise in his eyes. Besides, this term it had yielded John Watson.

Arriving at the cafe, he could see John already sitting down. As Sherlock strode in the man got out of his seat.

'Ah, Sherlock! You're early. Of course, I am as well. The train. Early, you see. Or rather, the line was delayed so I got an earlier one and then suddenly, no delays!' He rambled on for a moment before seeing the smile on Sherlock's face.

'Coffee?'

'Yes, of course. What would you like?' Sherlock reached for his wallet. 'No, I'm buying. I am the one with a salary here, after all.'

'I will have to make it up next time then, as I was clearly the one who made the invitation.'

'That's assuming there will be a next time!'

'Oh, there will.' Sherlock was _very _confident of that.

By the time that they had finally checked the time it was almost 1 and it had felt like almost no time had passed. Although John, Dr. Watson, had started out with a quite formal discussion of Sherlock's academic interests, chemistry and crime, of course, by the time lunch was rolling around John, the lecturer in him having disappeared, was laughing and grinning somewhat inappropriately at Sherlock's deductions of a young woman who had just entered the cafe.

'No! She can't be pregnant! You're kidding.'

'Even so young as herself I can assure you she is. Look at the way she is carefully guarding her abdomen. I bet you she doesn't even know it yet, it's just a subconscious thing, all those hormones! Chemistry, John! Chemistry!' He didn't even realise he was saying it until it was out of his mouth. But the man continued to laugh. It just felt so natural.

'You're one to call her young, Sherlock! How old are you? Too young to call her such!'

'I'm 23, I'll have you know! Which is hardly younger than you,' he grinned a little as he said this. How was this so natural? So much for coming across as his bristly self just to make sure John knew what he was dealing with.

'So young and yet so…'

'What?'

'I don't know. You have a way about you, Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes I think you're going to kill someone and sometimes I think you'll break out into song over chemistry's wonders.'

'Ha. The first one maybe, but the second? Never. At least, not in public. However… maybe you will see that someday.

'Yes. Maybe.' And with that they got up, anxious to exit before endless businessmen crowded the tiny cafe.

Their walk back to the tube was slow as they laughed and commented on funny things that had happened to them that morning. John's commute had sounded particularly eventful, for him, with a woman hitting him over the head with a violin as she stowed it away in the luggage rack on the train.

'They are _terribly _difficult to handle, sometimes, I will have you know.'

'How would you know that? All your chemistry experience has obviously led you to be a top violinist as well?'

'I dabble.'

'Sherlock Holmes, dabbling? You must be lying to me. An expert I am sure.'

'A bit.' He was still grinning. How was this possible?

They paused at the entrance to one of the recently re-opened Charing Cross subways into the station. 'Well this is me,' said John. His smile fading slightly as he realised Sherlock wasn't entering into the station with him.

'I'm afraid I need the District Line, so it's Embankment for me.'

'Ah, yes. Of course. Well, this was… very nice. We should do it again sometime.'

'Yes, I agree. Give me your phone.' His manner was very matter of fact.

'Excuse me?'

'I'm going to give you my phone number and you can text me so I have yours.' Not that Sherlock didn't already have it. The internet was so wonderful for these things.

'Ah yes, then a further meeting can occur.'

As Sherlock handed John back his phone, their fingers lingered, both still holding the it, unwilling to let the moment end. With that, and with some spontaneous impulse Sherlock was not aware he had, he leaned down and kissed John. Quickly, but without hesitation.

They broke apart, staring for a moment, not sure what had happened.

'That was…' Sherlock was hesitating. Should he do it again? But he didn't need to decide because before he knew it John was pulling him back down to kiss him again. It was at first chaste, but nice, warm lips on warm lips. However, he heard John groan slightly and that sound sent a shiver down his spine, making himself open his mouth as John's tongue slithered in, meeting his own. However, it exited and Sherlock's brain shut down and _very _functioning body decided biting John's lower lip would be an excellent plan. They both groaned simultaneously and were about to deepen the kiss again when John slowly drew away.

'Sorry. Public. I think we're attracting some attention. People will talk.'

'People always talk.'

'Yes, but…'

'Oh, I understand.' And Sherlock did, as much as he didn't want to admit it. He could feel the adrenaline leaving him, however, and a sinking feeling was reinserting itself into his stomach.

'It was nice. Sherlock.' John lightly touched his right hand, getting his attention. 'Just, not here.'

'Text me, then I have your number.' The sinking feeling was still too much. Had this confidence just been temporary? Back to the reality of being Mr. Holmes and him being Dr. Watson?

Sherlock felt his phone vibrate in his pocket: 'JH Watson'.

'Well, I must be off.' Sherlock stiffened, drawing himself up to his full height.

'Maybe we should do this again later this week? Friday?'

'Yes, perhaps…' Sherlock trailed off. He wasn't sure and with a sweep of his coat he was heading towards the Strand and Embankment station, leaving John feeling the most confused he ever had in recent memory.


End file.
